


Clueless Awakenings

by unholygrass



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Couple, F/M, FBI, Fluff, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Procedures, emily is here for some reason, lots of recovery, maeve is alive and nothing hurts, maeve never died
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-16 10:45:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13634703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unholygrass/pseuds/unholygrass
Summary: Spencer Reid is shot while interviewing a witness. Maeve Donovan faces the very real chance that she may lose the love of her life.





	1. Traveling

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I have other fics I'm supposed to be writing but ah I'm not so sorry about that but right now I'm deep in Criminal Minds hell and I need more SpencerXMaeve so I wrote it myself. I have another chapter already written for this and will hopefully be posting it soon.

The morning of one of the worst days of her life starts as normal as any day can. Spencer is in New Jersey, working on catching a serial arsonist who's targeting churches on Sundays. She wakes up in his apartment, curled into the comforter that smells like his laundry and his shampoo. Her phone is close to vibrating right off of the side table, and she manages to snatch it before it falls out of her reach. She only hits the snooze button twice that morning before rolling out of bed without sitting up first. Shedding the blanket and standing on the cold wooden floors has her stripping out of her pajamas before she's even reached the bathroom in an effort to get into the warm spray of the shower quicker.

There are no signs from the universe that this day will haunt her for the rest of her life. She makes coffee between pinning back her hair and brushing her teeth, and makes it out of the apartment before seven with her purse and her mug in tow. Her train is on time. She's first to the lab, the samples she's working with were correctly taken, and the paperwork is in the correct order. The creep from IT didn't come in and Trish offers to run and get lunch from the sandwich shop on forty-second street. They take an extra half hour to goof off before snapping back into the groove of things. She stays until seven because Andy is willing to go over her Paraplegia diagnosis with her before he has to leave for Seattle.

She's on the train that takes her to Lincoln park because she planned on eating at one of the venues there in order to get some fresh air when she gets the call. The train is loud and crowded, but she pulls her phone out when it vibrates anyway. If it's Spencer calling she needs to ask the password to his apartment's wifi again after having been kicked off when the router restarted last week.

But it's not Spencer. It's Aaron Hotchner calling her.

The phone stops ringing before she gets a chance to answer it but it would be too loud on the train to hear him anyway. She steps off at the next stop and hits redial. He answers after the first ring and she has to assume that he was still holding the phone in his hand.

“Maeve.” He answers. It's not a question as to if it's her, but more of an announcement of her presence.

“Agent Hotchner? Did you call me?” There's always the chance that it was a misdial. He has her number from Spencer's file and from the few occasions the team and their partners had get-togethers.

She was trying not to think of all the nightmares she's had about getting a call from Hotch before. About him calling in the dead of night to tell her that Spencer was dead, shot on a raid, blown up in an attack, stabbed by a crazed unsub. She tries not to think about how familiar it all is. How getting the dreaded call from Hotch is one of her biggest fears.

“I did. Are you home?”

He's beating around the bush. Hotch never beats around the bush. He was a man of few words and always meant what he said. He was straight forward and to the point.

“No. I'm in the subway. Is something wrong?”

Tell me Hotch. Why did you call- why isn't Spencer calling me instead? If there was something changing Spencer would be calling.

Unless he can't.

“Spencer's in the hospital. He and Rossi were canvassing for witnesses and there was a shooting. He's in St. Ann's currently. There's an agent at Quantico ready to drive you here.”

She supposes this is the true beginning of the worst day of her life. To her credit she does not drop her phone or fall to her knees. She steps four feet over to a bench and sits down before her knees get the chance to go weak. Her lungs don't seem to be working however, and she knows that's important. The subway rushes past her and sends her hair whipping violently around her face. A cluster of teenagers go bumbling across the platform, oblivious to the fact that maybe one day they'll fall in love with an FBI agent and then that FBI agent will be shot.

“Maeve?”

“How- how bad? How bad is it? Where- he-,” Words spill from her mouth before her brain catches up with her. She stands abruptly from the bench, twisting around to look at it, to look at the train, to look at the time and the platform and the stairs leading up to ground level.

There's only half a second of hesitation before Hotch seems to settle on what he's willing to share with her. “There were three shots fired; Rossi said that two hit him in the lower left chest. We just got to the hospital and they’ve taken him back into surgery.” Maeve squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she could until they physically hurt. Hotch’s voice was as steady as ever, but even she heard his stoic voice waver at the end. She sucked in a ragged trembling breath then opened her eyes and started running towards the staircase, her purse bouncing against her side as she emerged from the subway and into the bright Virginia sun.It sent spikes of dizziness through her skull for a moment before she adjusted to the brightness and managed to take in her surroundings. She was on Jefferson Street. A thirty minute train ride to the apartment, but only eight by taxi. 

“Did they tell you anything? Chances- or- or where it was located or the caliber or-“ she cuts herself off, knowing that her words didn’t sound like words anymore and more like incomprehensible gibberish. A taxi pulled to the road at her waving. 

“It was a Glock 45. There was no arterial blood.” Hotch doesn’t have a lot of information to give her except for what had been relayed to him by Rossi. Thankfully Rossi was one of the most qualified agents to handle such a desperate situation and while he was visibly shaken, the first responders had told Hotch that his quick reactions had given Spencer a better chance at pulling through. “They have three trauma doctors on staff. We just don’t have very much information yet. We’re still in the process of informing the nurses.”

She holds the phone to her chest as she leans towards the window separating her from the driver. “428 North State Street.” The driver must have noticed her urgency and the pure panic in her eyes, because he pulls away from the curb with enough zest that she has to grip the oh-shit handle to keep herself steady. “The man- the man who shot him- do you have him in custody?” Her face is wet now, and swallowing takes her full focus due to the pain it causes, but she doesn’t feel like she’s crying. She feels like she’s panicking her eyes decided that the best way to handle that was by drowning themselves. 

“No. But we have his name and face. The local police are seeming to take this as if one of their own were shot. Cop shooters don’t last long on the street.” She wipes a hand across her face, muscles achingly tense with anxiety. She has so many questions swirling through her brain fighting for dominance that she doesn’t get the chance to voice one before Hotch speaks again. 

“We’re talking to a few nurses now; Is Spencer on any medication?” Maeve hears the subtle inquiry there. There were no signs that Hotch had noticed that said perhaps Spencer was using again, but he would ask that feared question if it meant giving the doctors more information to save his life. 

“Yes. He takes divalproex sodium- the extended release, and rizatriptan. They’re both for his migraines. He hasn’t taken the rizatriptan for over three weeks. It should be out of his system.” She should be there. She should be talking to his doctors. She is the one in charge of all of his neurological prescriptions and she practically had his medical history memorized. “What else? What else do they need to know?” 

“It’s all the basics- no history of bad blood pressure or heart diseases-”

“No. No he’s healthy apart from the migraines and any genes from his mother’s schizophrenia.” Her voice jumps at this, her breath getting caught in her lungs. Discussing Spencer’s medical history over the phone was making the situation very real, very fast. They were talking about the man who laughed at her puns about radial symmetry and didn’t own so much as a single pair of matching socks and who could recite one hundred and thirty two facts about the spanish mafia without even realizing.

Hotch must have her her breath hitch, and he continues on in a softer tone. “I’m currently listed as Spencer’s medical proxy, but if any decisions have to be made-” There’s a loll in his words here, as if he had to pause from the weight of them on his tongue. “I’m going to contact you first and we’ll discuss everything.” She has to place her cold fingers on her chest at this, willing the pressure to ground her in the moment to process his words. Hotch is helping her- is telling her that she won’t be helpless and uninvolved in Spencer’s care- she’s reminded again that Hotch is a good man. 

“Thank you.” She whispers, clearing her throat afterward in an effort to speak louder. 

“It’s going to be a few hours until we get any information. Take the time to pack a bag for yourself and Spencer. I’m going to text you the number of the agent who will drive you.” 

“Okay.” She doesn’t mean for her voice to sound so broken. She drops her head from her shoulders and rests it on her hand. She can hear Hotch hesitate again, obviously debating if he should say more to comfort her.

“I’ll call you if anything changes. Be safe.” 

Be safe. 

Hotch’s anxiety showed through those two words alone. He was terrified of any one else in his family being lost today. 

She hangs up the phone and clutches it to her chest with white knuckles. The cab driver has not slowed down. He’s even speeding through yellow lights. 

“Okay?” Is all he asks. One word spoken as an ear to her tragedy. 

“No. No- I need to get home.”

The driver goes faster. She doesn’t know how to express how grateful she is other than to leave him an extra ten dollars before she rushes for the doors of Spencer’s building. 

Once she’s at the apartment she forgoes the elevator and bounds up the stairs like she’s being chased and fumbles for her keys as if she were drunk. She feels her phone vibrate in her pocket but only checks it long enough to confirm that it’s Agent Hotchner sending her the number of the agent driving her to New Jersey. 

She has a leather bag big enough to hold a week’s worth of clothes or so, and she tries to put all of her focus on making sure she makes everything they might need instead of thinking about Spencer dying. About him being shot- of the fall out- 

She packs toothbrushes and razors and hair ties and soap. She goes into the bedroom and opens their wardrobe before dropping her arms to her side with a slap. 

Shot.

He was shot. Shot in the chest. Lower left chest. Liver, lungs, arteries (no arterial blood), ribs, gallbladder, pancreas, diaphragm, stomach- 

Shot twice.

 

She’s a doctor. She knows the math and she knows the procedure. Somehow that just makes it all worse. 

Packing momentarily abandoned, she clamps both hands over her mouth. 

She doesn’t mean to crawl on the bed and she doesn’t mean to start shaking and she definitely doesn’t mean to slip right into a panic attack. She can’t get enough air into her lungs and she can’t stop the jumping of her chest or the hiccups that rip through her diaphragm painfully. 

When she eventually comes back to herself she tries to compartmentalize more successfully. It works to an extent. She packs all the sweatpants he owns and four flannel shirts that buttoned all the way down so he could wear it and there would still be access to his chest. She packs him two sweatshirts (because there’s a very good chance that she will end up wearing one of them) and she packs him all of his clean socks and underwear. 

She texts the agent before packing her own things. She might as well have him headed on his way. 

He makes it faster than expected and while she’s sure she has most things packed, she decides it doesn’t matter because anything she’s forgotten she can pick up at the closest store to the hospital. 

She’s probably slipped into shock by the time they’ve left DC. Her face is dry but red and she finds that she’s unwilling to put the leather bag in the trunk, choosing instead to hold it on her lap and wrap her arms around it. It’s heavy and somehow that’s comforting. 

The agent driving doesn’t try to strike up any conversation with her, but when he picked her up he had offered her his reassurances and offered to try to answer any questions she had. He seemed genuinely concerned about Spencer and herself. She hadn’t had much to say though, and he had respected that by not pushing her. The radio was quiet but loud enough in the heavy deafness of the SUV. 

She flinches like she’s been slapped when her phone rings. She had turned her ringer on so she couldn’t miss any calls, but the sudden shrillness had sent her heart pounding. 

It was Hotch. 

There’s a moment of nothing except for pure unfiltered terror. 

He’s dead. He’s dead and Hotch is calling me to tell me that he’s dead. That he bleed out on the table, that he’s gone, that he coded-

She hits answer. Apparently Hotch knew exactly where her thoughts were headed. “He’s alive. He’s still alive.” 

She lets her head thunk against the cold glass of the window. Her voice only cracks once. “What changed?” 

“They’ve managed to stabilize him enough for transit. They got approval from Philadelphia to fly him to Thomas Jefferson University Hospital.”

“Airvac?” She already knows the answer, but she needs all the information she can get. 

“Yes- They’re preparing now. I’m going to fly with them and go to Philadelphia and the rest of the team will join us when they’ve caught our unsub.” 

“Right.” It feels like her throat has swollen shut. 

They have to fly him out. 

They have to fly him out but he’s still alive.

Arriving at the hospital is nothing but chaos. It’s nearly eleven PM, but a hospital never sleeps. The parking lot is almost full and snow has begun to slip from the sky, prompting anyone still lingering outside to rush about mindlessly to get back into the closest source of heat. Hotch is standing by the closest entrance when they park the SUV to join him. He offers to take her heavy bag and she lets him because the closer they get to the doors the more lightheaded she’s feeling. “Have they told you anything more?” 

“No. We’ve been waiting for you to get here.” He speaks to the agent who drove her quietly before the man climbs back into the SUV and starts it again to head off. When he turns back to her she can feel him reading her appearance. “How are you holding up?” 

“I just need to know more.” She says, shivering in the brisk wind. “I’m a doctor- the more I know the better I’ll feel.” 

Hotch can’t help himself from remembering every time when Reid had coped the same way- choosing to try to understand a situation to the best of his ability and how it happened rather than process his emotions surrounding it. 

He leads her through the maze of a lobby to several elevators and they ride up to the fifth floor in silence. She feels lost and small among the pale blue hallways, the unfamiliar surroundings threatening to open up and swallow her. They go straight to the nurses’ station, and upon being informed that she’s arrived, one of the nurses hurries off to fetch one of the doctors. Another leads them to a private waiting room. 

The lights are lowered and a tv in the corner glows silently with a game of Jeopardy. There’s only a handful of chairs and a coffee machine sits along with some magazines and children’s toys on a table in the corner. The walls are a muted purple and there are nondescript paintings hung about. There’s only six chairs, and Rossi is slumped over in one of them. 

She has a feeling she’s going to become very familiar with this room.


	2. Resting Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maeve sets her eyes on Spencer for the first time since the shooting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit shorter because I found a natural stopping point and and I want to do a time skip so here we are. Short and kinda boring but I wanted to write it so I don't feel too bad about it.

It was rare that Maeve had to play the waiting game. Her research took time but while she was waiting for the results of one test she would order another or start another topic. She was in charge of her own finances so she could buy things when she chose and could generally get anything done within her own time frame- rarely was her time dictated by someone else. Spencer’s time revolved around his work and while she thought that may have proven to be a difficult angle of their relationship, it had turned out not to be much of a problem at all. 

 

Unfortunately, it meant that now while she sat and waited to hear news of Spencer’s condition, she was incredibly out of practice with her own patience. She’d only been sitting for a few moments, waiting for Spencer’s doctor to come in and explain his condition and already she could feel agitation building up in her veins. She had always been a relatively small person, and she felt comfort in curling up in the chair as she used to as a child. She pulled her knees against her stomach and considered digging out one of Spencer’s sweatshirts that she had packed for him- she wanted to smell anything other than the harsh lemon anesthetic that was used to clean every surface.

 

They wait thirteen minutes before a short and stout woman enters the room, hair larger than her shoulders and eyeliner thick below her eyes. Winkles are encroaching across her face and her bright pink eyeshadow matched her neon lipstick; she had a hole in the seam of the scrub and they weren’t quite a matching blue, but she had an air about her that Maeve had learned to trust. She had a soft expression with harsh edges that must have come from working for years and years as a trauma nurse. She smiled at them when they stood to shake her hand and Maeve would have bet that she would be wearing large jewelry should the hospital policy allow it.  

 

“Hello. I’m Amanda- I was one of the nurses involved in Spencer’s surgery.” Her voice has a thick accent not associated with any place Maeve knew of. “His doctor is still in with him currently- they’re running a few lung function tests.” 

 

Amanda happens to be very skilled in her field, and Maeve can tell simply by how she handles the act of sharing Spencer's condition with them. She invites them to sit and speaks in casual layman's terms while trying to keep from overwhelming them. Amanda tells them that Spencer’s liver and lung were severely damaged, one portion being practically shredded by the bullet. She explains that three ribs were broken in CPR and that they had to put his ribcage back together with metal pins and plates. She tells them that he is showing early signs of sepsis, and that should it continue they may have to look into getting a transplant for part of his liver. She tells them that they’re combating any infections but that it wouldn’t surprise her if that complication came up due to the location of the wounds. She tells them that they’re going to keep him heavily sedated for a minimum of four days and then go from there. She tells them that they won’t be able to see him for another few hours, as they are taking care of a few housekeeping things, getting him settled into a private ICU room where he’ll be monitored by the anesthesiologist at 30 minute intervals.  

 

She knows that Amanda tries her best, but it’s still a lot to take in. Her face is wet again, but she’s not sure if that can actually be classified as crying or not. She uses the sleeves of her sweater to dry her eyes, and feels the heavy weight of Hotch putting an arm around her shoulders. They are trading some specifics when the question comes up. 

 

“There was a rather vague note from one of the EMTs that Spencer had mentioned being kept off of narcotics if at all possible-- We have him on a partial neuromuscular blocker right now while he’s on the ventilator, and it will be effective in keeping him comfortable for the meantime, but once he comes off we’ll have to discuss some more pain management options. Just keep it in the back of your mind for later.” 

Once the nurse has left, Maeve escapes to the bathroom and looks at herself in the mirror under the harsh fluorescent lights blasting down on her. She’s a wreck-- she was expecting that, but somehow seeing herself in the mirror refirms that everything that was happening was real- that she wasn’t dreaming, nor was she drunk or insane. Her world was crashing down, but he was  _ alive _ . He had made it through surgery, and while he had a very difficult and dangerous recovery in front of him, he had survived the most difficult part. His chances of living were at their lowest when he was splayed out on that operating table, and now that he was in post op they were slowly rising, even with the fear of complications. 

 

She splashes her face with water and thoroughly washes her hands beneath steaming water before straightening up and tugging at her sweater and button up. She was still dressed in her work clothes. It was less than comforting as a reminder that her life had completely turned around in the time span of one day. 

 

The clock in the hallway reads two am as she meanders back to the waiting room, and she wonders briefly if the person responsible had been arrested yet.  

 

At four am Derek Morgan slips into the waiting room and she briefly stirs from her trance like resting when he tells them all that the shooter was in custody and being processed. He sits down heavily next to her and says no more-- a sure sign of his exhaustion and fear. 

 

By five am Emily and JJ have joined them as well, and by five thirty a nurse comes to collect her to show her to Spencer’s room. Hotch goes with her, but the others have to stay. Visiting hours have not begun, and Spencer’s fragile condition had them weary to permit too much contact with stimulation-- the nurse, a tall hispanic woman with long sleek hair, bites her lip at this before shrugging and saying that she always found that patients surrounded by loved ones always seemed to heal faster than those without, and offhandedly mentions that she’ll fight to let the others seem him sooner rather than later. 

 

They stop right outside of Spencer’s room when the nurse turns to them. “I just want to warn you-- he doesn’t look too great right now. All things considered, the surgery went very well, but his appearance is a bit rough. I know it can be startling, but he’s stable right now and that’s a very good sign.” She flashes them an understanding smile and Hotch nods at her before she holds open the door to allow them in. 

 

Spencer’s critical condition had won him a private room complete with a viewing glass for the multiple people who would be keeping track of his vitals which were turned for easy viewing. Complete with its own bathroom, the room held a recliner and three vinyl chairs that matched the muted olive colored walls. 

 

And of course, centered in the room was the bed that held the love of her life. 

 

Spencer laid on his back, his whole body seeming to be sinking into the mattress. He was covered by a cotton blanket that came to his bare chest which was wrapped in thick gauze. Her eyes took in every inch of him as she approached the bed, drawn in to him like he was a savior and she was a sinner. 

 

The sound of Hotch closing the door is accompanied by the soft hiss of the ventilator, and she took a mental catalogue of her Spencer Reid.

 

The respirator tube was kept securely in place by a band that wrapped around his head, and his mouth was mostly closed apart from the tube protruding from the corner of his lips. His skin was pale, the sort that made the veins seem to show beneath the skin, and it made the shadows clinging to his eyes all the more prominent. She reached forward and brushed his shaggy hair away from his face, eyes drawn to the stained bandages wrapped around his torso. They were tinted yellow from the iodine wash, as was his skin. Bruises crept out all the way up his shoulders from the CPR, and on closer inspection, she could even see the red inflamed skin irritated from the defibrillation paddles. There was dried blood beneath his fingernails and it stained his skin here and there, a splotch under his jaw or splashed on his hip. 

 

She feels all of the air rush out of her at once, and reaches down and grips the hospital blanket in one hand. She tugged it further up his chest to cover more of his arms in the hopes of keeping him from catching a chill. Her other hand came to rest on his forehead, soft hands brushing his shaggy hair away from his face and tucking it behind his ear. Words spill from her mouth before she realizes that she’s spoken. “He kept saying he needed to get a haircut, but he never remembered once he got home.” 

 

Hotch’s gaze settled on her. “I think he likes it long, except that it gets in his way.” She nods at his statement before running her fingers through his hair once more. It was a bit greasy-- but that was hardly his fault. He probably hadn’t had time to wash it while on the case. She makes a mental note to buy some dry shampoo for him if she goes to the store. He never liked his hair looking too greasy. 

 

It takes another eight minutes of her standing there before the fatigue of the day catches up with her, and she finds that she can no longer remain standing. The recliner is a bit too far from the bed for her liking, and after pushing it closer she sinks into it gracelessly, her hand resting on Spencer’s bicep. 

 

Maeve knew she had four more days at least before she would get to hear him speak again, or see his bright eyes. It made her stomach twist and tumble to think that she would have to bear the sight of him without hearing from him that he would be okay. 

 

It would take time, but in the end she knew she would always wait for him. 


	3. Fresh Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maeve gets used to living in a hospital room and finally gets a glimpse of Spencer's eyes.

Maeve lasts twenty consecutive hours before Rossi and Emily finally convince her to get out of the hospital. She’s sat in Spencer’s room for most of that time, leaving occasionally to use the restroom or walk the halls to rid herself of some of the restless energy that seemed to build up in her bones. 

 

They take her out of the hospital to get lunch and to stop by a local Walmart. Rossi is dressed back in his normal attire after having been dressed in scrubs after the shooting because his clothes were soiled with blood. He’s been particularly quiet, but Maeve can’t blame him. She knew full well that the BAU team were a close knit family-- she’s seen the panic in Spencer’s eyes every time one of them was in danger or hurt-- she knew that fear went both ways. The whole team was worried about Spencer’s condition, but Rossi had been effected even more so. He had personally watched the life drain out of his youngest team member and tried to keep him alive enough for help to arrive. 

 

Maeve didn’t know how the hell she’d feel if she had been in his position. 

 

They don’t talk much at lunch, and Maeve is a little thankful for that. She’d never been the best conversationalist, and she usually had Spencer there to help or if nothing else share in the awkwardness with her. 

 

The fact that she knows he’s not okay somehow makes her miss him more. 

 

Rossi manages to charm a few laughs from her, and Emily helps her pick out a few things in the store that she had left in DC. Rossi doesn’t let her pay for the things she’s buying, and insists on footing the bill. It’s a relief to get fresh air, and with the two of them acting as a distraction, she manages not to feel too guilty for leaving him. 

 

By the next morning she’s back in the recliner, covered in a purple fleece blanket Garcia had bought and wearing one of Spencer’s old CalTech sweatshirts with a pair of leggings. She’d ditched her shoes awhile ago when attempting to sleep, and hasn’t bothered to put them back on yet. Her socks are thick and woolen and she’s having trouble remembering if she bought them for Spencer or if Spencer bought them for her. 

 

Someone’s opened the blinds to the room, and Maeve suspects Garcia. It makes the room brighter and more comfortable, but it also makes Spencer look paler. 

 

On the third day Maeve finds herself moving throughout the hospital room like molasses, thin fingers trailing over the beautiful flowers that were flooding the small space. She hadn’t expected to see so many-- she knows Spencer will be ecstatic, if embarrassed. There’s flowers from the mathematics, biology, and psychology departments at CalTech, as well as two bouquets from the Engineering department at MIT. Three professors have sent arrangements, as well as Strauss and the director of the FBI. There’s flowers from his mother’s doctor, as well as two different individuals named Ryan and Lloyd. The largest arrangement is from a lady named Lila, signed with a heart, and Maeve wonders humorously if she should ask him about that. 

 

They make the whole room look far brighter and much more homely, and she makes a mental note to remember to send them all thank yous for their consideration. 

 

Spencer looks better today. They’d changed his bandages and he’d been without incident for long enough that they had dressed him in a hospital gown and given him a few more blankets. He was to be extubated tonight after dinner, and in the morning switched over from the neuromuscular blockers over to non narcotic pain relievers. The only concerns they had involved his low vitamin levels and high white blood cells- both things that could be monitored. They had lightened the sedation earlier, but besides a twitch here or a jerk there, Spencer had shown few signs of awareness. 

 

She passed Morgan’s chair where he was texting someone, but he’d gotten used to her pacing an didn’t pay her too much attention. She appreciated that. 

 

She wandered back to the head of the bed and let her eyes take in the numbers on the monitors. His temperature was a little warm and his blood pressure was still low, but his vitals had all improved significantly from where they had been the night he’d been shot. His skin isn’t so waxy and there had been time to wash the remaining blood from his skin-- she’s even gotten some dry shampoo into his hair and socks onto his feet. And his eyes--

 

His eyes were open. 

 

She kicked blindly behind her and felt her foot connect with one of the legs of Derek’s chair, affectively alerting him that something was up. 

 

Spencer was blinking slowly, eyes only open in slits and threatening to roll back into his head. He was clear that he was less awake and more so just fighting the sedation. After another moment he managed to look more conscious, but he still wasn’t quite making eye contact. Maeve saw Morgan emerge in the other side of the bed. She placed her hand on Spencer’s forehead with a smile. “Hey there.” 

 

There was still a certain glaze over his eyes, but he did lock on her face. Her smile grew. “You’re okay. Everyone’s okay. You’re intubated right now, but they’re going to take it out later and then you’ll be able to speak. Just sleep now.” He blinked once at her words before his gaze flitted over to Morgan for a moment, who flashed him a brilliant 1000 watt smile. “Just sleep kid.” 

 

He watches them for a moment later before his eyes slide back shut and his entire body relaxed once again. She kept her hand on his head for awhile longer even as tears filled her eyes. 

 

She had missed him so badly. 

 

\------------------------------

They stop the nerve blockers half an hour before they take him off of the respirator, and start him on the non narcotics at the same time. She stays out of the room for the duration of the procedure, and it is JJ who keeps her comfortable. The team has been going home in shifts, they’d drive up and stay for the day, then drive back down the next day to see their families. Rossi and Emily had both taken hotel rooms, but even they had gone home for a day to pack more clothes and do laundry. She wonders vaguely when the next case will steal them away, because she knows that it will. She wonders if Strauss is letting them have the time off or if they’re having to fight for it. 

 

But they never leave Maeve completely alone. She knows Hotch will be headed back up to the hospital that night, and she doesn’t know how to express how grateful she is to all of them. 

 

She tries not to be disappointed when she goes back into the room and discovers that Spencer is still asleep. His doctor assures her that he’s doing well and will wake up soon, but she’s only partially listening if she were to be honest with herself. 

 

She ends up sleeping in the recliner again, soothed to sleep by the sound of Spencer breathing on his own accord and the news reports that JJ had on the TV. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please review!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He awakens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm supposed to be showering.

She wakes up around 4 am, stretched out in the recliner with the feet up, mysteriously covered by two blankets this time. The lights are all off save for a dim light in the bathroom, and the glow of a smartphone radiating from where Hotch sits absorbed in his seat. He looks to be mostly asleep. When she shifts and sits up, he notices her. “He’s not woken up yet. The nurse was just here to give him the last dose of sedative.” She nods, and wonders when they all got so comfortable with each other. 

 

She knew Agent Hotchner. Had sat next to him at Moran’s New Year party and even had a conversation with him about her last doctorate and how she had a good chance of getting promoted to the head researcher at her hospital. He’d spoken of his son as Jack jumped on Spencer’s back without warning, and together they’d watched as Spencer feigned death dramatically onto the carpet. 

 

Before the shooting however, that had been as far as she knew him. She knew of his history and attitude from what Spencer told her, knew he was skilled and that he looked out for Spencer and cared deeply for him. 

 

Now- she felt like she knew him far better. She knew he was loyal and protective, that he kept track of every round of personal that was apart of Spencer’s care. She knew that he rarely let his emotions show through, but that he also knew that some situations called for delicacy and she had learned that he had become possibly her greatest wall of support. 

 

JJ, Morgan, and Garcia had been outlets, coaxing her emotions out and prompting her to talk lest she bottle everything up and explode. They knew her best, and they knew how to use that to help her, cracking open her mind and keeping her head on straight. On the first night when she locks herself in the bathroom to cry, Garcia sits on the other side and talks about everything under the sun until she can breathe again, then holds her so firmly that Maeve briefly entertains the thought that maybe she can disappear in the woman’s arms and when she reemerges everything will be okay. Emily and Rossi gave her welcome distractions and reminded her that the future wasn’t doomed. They mention the news and bring the news paper and keep the blinds open. They helped her keep her head above water. 

 

But Hotch was the one who was there when she inevitably slipped beneath the metaphorical waves. 

 

She’s pulled from her thoughts when Spencer shifts on the bed and lets out a string of syllables that sounds like “Mmmm ‘wake. Awake. I’m- I am.” The smile that finds her face nearly splits it in two. Despite the thin light from the bathroom she can see that his eyes are still closed, but he’s moving his mouth, like he’s testing the way his tongue feels against his teeth. His vitals have spikes briefly, but are already settling down, and when she slips her hand into his he squeezes it. “Who?”

 

“Maeve and Hotch.” She tells him, standing clumsily from her seat, falling over the extended footrest and barely managing to catch herself on the risen rail on his bed. She promptly leaned over the side of the bed and planted a firm kiss on his brow, his eyes having struggled open at the sound of commotion she’d created. There’s a glaze there keeping him from seeing them clearly- she can tell from how his eyes keep drifting from where they’re supposed to be, overcome by the weight of his eyelids. She sees Hotch squeeze his shoulder and watches as Spencer struggles to wake himself up more. 

 

There’s a pitcher with ice water inside, and she slips some of the ice into a cup before giving him some. He smiles at her faintly, mumbling something incomprehensible about her reading his mind, but it comes out more like “Oi ‘d mmm ind.” Hotch actually laughs. Once she’s sure that he’s a little more conscious, she rested her hand on his face, completely mesmerized by the fact that he was alive and looking at her. 

 

“‘ow many days?” He asks, voice grating and at least one octave deeper than normal. 

 

“Four.” She tells him, voice soft and bursting with love. Hotch finds himself content to sit back and watch. He had been in this situation before- been there when Reid awoke in the hospital and had calmed him when his brilliant mind didn’t supply him with the answers he needed. It was safe to say that Maeve was far more qualified for the job, and that Spencer was content to stare at her instead. 

 

“Wow.” is all he says, and Hotch knows then that Reid is not all there. 

 

“Wow.” Maeve repeats, and somehow, Hotch’s heart swells further. 

 

“Do you remember what happened?” Maeve asks tentatively, squeezing his hand. 

 

Heis eyes roll over to Hotch, then back at Maeve. “No.” There’s a pause. “Is everyone safe?” 

 

Hotch answers for her. “Yes.” 

 

Reid nods once. “Good.” And immediately falls back asleep.

 

When Maeve starts quietly laughing, Hotch doesn’t even have to question her sanity, because he’s smiling too. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nonnarcotic pain relievers turn out to be less than reliable. Maeve makes a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Shrug emoji* I wrote this while getting yelled at so

Maeve has decided that Garcia is a saint. She always had her suspicions, but now she knows for sure that the woman belongs in the book of the gods. She’s flipping lazily through a book when she comes into Spencer’s room carrying her favorite tea and a deck of cards, announcing that she has come with the sole purpose of teaching Maeve how to play a card game named ‘Peanuts’ and that Morgan would be there within the hour, and that between the two of them they would kick his ass thoroughly. She’s become dead to her book anyway, having bought it in the giftshop without realizing it was a disgustingly sappy book about a couple getting lost in Aruba. Spencer called them “Brain Drainers”. 

 

They’d pulled over a rolling table and played cards for half an hour when movement from the bed catches her eye. She glanced at Spencer and began reaching for the blanket piled in the recliner when she noticed he was shivering, only to pause in her movement to surge to her feet and scramble over to the bed upon realizing that Spencer wasn’t shivering, but was practically vibrating on the mattress, hands gripping the sheets with white knuckles and body so tense that the muscles in his neck were sticking out and the veins in his arms where bulging. She’s there in a second, hand falling to the junction between his shoulder and neck, the other cupping the side of his face. His skin is clammy and slimy with sweat, leaving darkened spots on his hospital gown, and the color he was slowly gaining back had disappeared completely.

 

“Oh my god. Oh my god-- What’s wrong-- what’s-” Garcia’s voice floats over to her. 

 

She’s already pressed the panic button apparently, but it probably wouldn’t have mattered because the blood pressure alarm goes off next, and she knows that the nurses down the hall will have been informed. 

 

“Is he bleeding? What--” The other woman is on the other side of the bed now, hands hovering above Spencer, too afraid to touch.

 

“No-” She can hear the sound of hurried footsteps down the hall. They’re coming. “His blood pressure is rising, not falling. It’s-” the words get caught in her throat. “It’s pain. He’s in pain. The medication isn’t working.” The nurse who slips into the room catches the last part of her sentence, and Maeve recognizes her as Amanda, the woman who had spoke to them originally. She steps up smoothly, her experience showing through each of her movements. She silences the alarm and whips out her stethoscope before two more nurses even make it into the room. 

 

To their credit, they don’t push Maeve away from the bed, and she tilts Spencer’s head towards her. His face is scrunched up in agony, drained of all color despite the fact that Maeve can tell he’s partially holding his breath. “Spence- Breathe. They’re going to give you something stronger, but you have to breathe-” She makes rushed little movements with her hands, fiercely pushing his hair back an firmly cupping the side of his face, trying to give him a sensation to hold on to. He let out a little whoosh of air before opening his eyes and looking at her. There’s a fevered glaze over his eyes. 

 

“No- can’t” Is all he says- or at least all Maeve can make out of the series of syllables that flow from his mouth. “Can’t-- drugs.” She shook her head at him, tears coming more intensely now.

 

“You can’t stay like this-- you need painkillers Spencer.” Her voice cracks, overwhelmed by the thought of his agony. She knew his history. They’d shared their life stories over the years, and she knew his consisted of hasty tourniquets and shame. It was something he had been reluctant to share with her, and had spoken about with contempt. There had been late nights curled against each other when he’d confessed of his fear of ever falling back into the clutches of drugs, terrified of losing his self control again. She’s asked about the pain, and he’d told her that pain was something he could handle, could compartmentalize, could tackle with a stiff upper lip. 

 

He’d told her that the drugs consumed his mind and destroyed him from the inside out- twisted his thoughts until he couldn’t recognize himself. He feared that far more than any pain. 

 

But this-- this was different. This wasn’t a broken arm or a sprained ankle. He’d been shot in the chest- had metal drilled in his bones, was being held together by thread-- this wasn’t something he would be able to power through, no matter the strength of his willpower. The human body could only handle so much pain before it shut down and refused to reboot. 

 

“No-” He moans, and she can see the panic in his eyes. He’s terrified, not of the pain that must be completely suffocating- but of being injected against his will. He’s jerking away from the nurses’ touch, fingers even scrabbling over the only IV he can get contact to, trying to pull it out- to get  _ away _ . 

 

“No- Spence, no stop stop stop.” Words are spilling out of her lips without any meaning, and she catches his fumbling hands in one of hers, his strength ebbing away with each passing second. The tears in her eyes had everything blurring to the point that no amount of blinking was going to clear her vision. 

 

_ He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve this. _

 

Sweat has completely soaked through the collar of his gown now, and he has tears on his panicked face. Maeve can hear Garcia crying in the background. 

 

“Maeve- Maeve I can’t- I won’t be able to-” His words come out as garbled hiccups, and something inside her breaks, maybe her heart or her spleen or her sternum she isn’t sure she just knows that it  _ hurts _ and suddenly she’s gathered him completely into her arms until he stops flailing. 

 

Her words are slow and deliberate, fierce as her lips move against his ear. “Spencer Reid, if you are strong enough to be in this much pain and refuse drugs, you will be strong enough to quit them. I  _ swear _ . We will take you off them as soon as possible, and it will be fine. They’ll mix too many to recognize one, and you won’t relapse. I won’t let you.  _ I won’t let you. _ ” 

 

There’s a moment where all she can feel is the way his chest is jumping against her sternum as he greedily sucks in air. The room is still and silent except for his breathing, and she can see the nurses over his shoulder holding each other back- one has a pre readied concoction of drugs to put him out, and the other has an oxygen mask. 

 

She doesn’t let him go even after he finally nods, conceding to her words. Only once his battered body slowly loses it’s tension does she rest him back against the bed. The nurse slips the oxygen mask onto his head with a practiced hand, and he doesn’t flinch away from her as he had before. One of them disappears to collect a long term IV bag with a dispenser to properly infuse the narcotics, and the remaining one wets a towel and doesn’t hesitate to hand it to Maeve when she asks for it. The drugs pull him under faster than normal because of his raised blood pressure, but he falls asleep with one of his hands fisted in the fabric of the sweatshirt Maeve is wearing. 

 

With the permission of the nurses and a little assistance, she manages to curl up next to him on the bed, careful not to smash any electrodes or tubing. She keeps one hand wrapped around his shoulders and the other clamped on his forearm, eyes watching the rhythmic fogging his breath puts on the mask over his face.  

 

She had lost track of Garcia during the commotion, but finds her again when the woman sits next to the bed, mascara hopelessly smeared down her cheeks and eyes still watering. She silently hands her a book-- not the one she had been reading earlier, but one of Spencer’s latest hyperobessions. She reads it, opening it up to the last page he had been on, and imagines his reactions and thought processes as she reads it instead of processing the information herself. 

 

Together they stay like that, and she keeps repeating the words over and over in her mind--  _ I won’t let you. I won’t let the drugs consume you again.  _

**Author's Note:**

> Please Review!


End file.
